


Life Without You

by I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them/pseuds/I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John falls in love with and marries a woman. Sherlock, who is secretly desperately in love with John, doesn't take his loss well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Without You

They meet Mary Morstan on a simple case, boring, not even a four. Sherlock sends John to work on it, and is annoyed but not entirely surprised when John comes back a few hours later with Mary, the victim’s daughter, clinging to his arm. He is even more annoyed when she isn’t bothered by his behaviour. Sherlock expects her to go away immediately. He thinks that she’s only there because John feels bad for her (he has been informed that people feel sad and need comforting when they lose family members), but she sticks around. John asks her on a date, which Sherlock can’t even begin to understand, since she is dull, unattractive, loud, stuck-up, and simpering, has an absurdly high-pitched giggle, doesn’t like Sherlock, is unintelligent, and is in Sherlock’s eyes essentially a female version of Anderson.  
But John likes her. They continue to go on dates, ignoring Sherlock’s attempts to get rid of her. These attempts grow more frantic as weeks go by. To John, she is special. He fancies himself in love with her.  
Sherlock despises her. He hates her more than Anderson, Donovan, Mycroft, and Moriarty combined. He tries to tell John this, but he is ignored.  
He knows he is better for John than she is. But he keeps his deductions about Mary to himself. John obviously doesn’t want to know.  
He doesn’t bother to hide his jealousy. The police, who don’t know about Mary, see Sherlock seething, and stay clear of him. Molly and Mrs. Hudson see what the problem is immediately and sympathetically give him extra body parts and biscuits, respectively. Mycroft tries to talk to him, and gets a teacup thrown at his head. Mary, of course, knows what it is, and she smirks at him, a conceited little acknowledgement – “I have him and you don’t” – and it makes him hate her even more. John either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. It hurts either way.  
When Angelo again asks if John and Sherlock are a couple, and John says “No” with enough force to blow out the candle, it feels to Sherlock like a little candle has been extinguished in his heart, because Moriarty was right, he does have one. So this is rejection, he marvels drily in his head.  
When John starts ignoring him altogether, he becomes more like the man he was in The Time Before John, snappy and unpredictable and cruel. No one likes it. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, even Donovan and Anderson beg John to talk to him. “I will when he starts being nice to Mary and respecting my choice to be with her,” is the answer, and everyone sighs and gets ready for a long storm, because they all know that Sherlock will never be able to do that.  
Every time John spends the night with her, the flat is filled with a cacophony of violent, unmusical sound from Sherlock’s violin, driving Mrs. Hudson mad.  
When John decides to marry her, Sherlock feels like he has been stabbed in the gut with a sharp knife that was first dipped in a fire. (He hates metaphors like that, but he has in fact been stabbed before, and it felt like this, so he feels he has the right.) Mycroft is the one to tell him (because John won’t do it himself, the cowardly bastard), and he seems to be treading cautiously, like he thinks he’ll be attacked. (Sherlock contemplates the idea, but decides hurting the messenger will accomplish nothing and instead spins onto the couch, facing away.)  
“He wants you to be his best man,” Mycroft says.  
“No.”  
“I told him it would not be well-received,” his brother sighs. “He said to ask anyway.”  
“Does he think I’ll be happy for him?”  
Mycroft doesn’t bother to answer that, just sits there in silence (in John’s chair, because it’s not like he’s using it), because of course he doesn’t really need to answer. They both know – John doesn’t think Sherlock will be happy, but he wants him to pretend, he wants him to try.  
“Are you in love with him, Sherlock?”  
He feels his heart constricting, and after a very long pause, he nods, miserably, almost imperceptibly.  
“I thought so,” is the soft response. “This is your only chance, if you want to tell him. Once he is officially married, you can’t do anything.”  
“I know.”  
“So what are you going to do?”  
“Nothing.”  
“Nothing. So you intend to just suffer quietly. You’re willing to just be in pain.”  
“What do you care?”  
“Sherlock, please. You are my brother. I don’t want to see you so miserable.”  
“Nice that someone cares. He obviously doesn’t.” Heart constricts even more. He thinks it might break any moment.  
Eventually Mycroft leaves. John appears a few hours later, and Mycroft has clearly talked to him already. “Sherlock, will you come to the wedding?”  
“No.”  
“Why not, Sherlock?”  
“I know how weddings work, John. If the priest asks if anyone objects, I may be unable to control myself. That would just create a horribly awkward situation. People might talk. Better for everyone if I’m not there.”  
“Sherlock. Please. Stop this. If you just tried to like her...”  
“I did. I did, John, I tried to like her, because she obviously made you happy. But I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me, so you’re being more stupid than I thought you were if you expect me to be happy for you.”  
“I care about this woman, Sherlock, and I am not going to let you ruin this. If you can’t pretend to be civil, I guess we’ll just have to keep our distance.”  
“Fine.” What? No. Not fine. Not fine at all.  
“Fine!” He walks to the door. “Goodbye, Sherlock.” Leaves. Sherlock’s heart has finally had enough, and it shatters into a thousand pieces.  
Sherlock doesn’t see John after that, because he doesn’t come to visit Sherlock, because he’s too busy with Mary. Sherlock pretends that being busy is the only reason, but deep within the ruins of his heart he knows that John is angry with him. Has had enough. No longer wants a friend like Sherlock.  
He tries to delete him, but he can’t. He never has been good at deleting the things he most wanted to delete.  
He can pretend to ignore people when they try to talk to him. Apparently everyone else is able to see that Sherlock loves John and that losing John to Mary is hurting him, everyone except John. And apparently no one else particularly likes Mary, either, and they say that they’re all sad that John is marrying her. But they aren’t as upset as Sherlock. They haven’t lost their best friend.  
Sherlock is affected far more than he wants to be. He struggles to solve basic cases. He stops eating. He returns to drugs. He feels a bit bad for what it’s doing to Mrs. Hudson, but not bad enough to stop. He knows she misses John, and she misses a happy Sherlock even more. Sherlock misses that, too.  
Months go by without them seeing each other. Sherlock reads John’s blog (dull, now) and constantly sees comments asking about him. Eventually John posts to address the questions. He explains that they aren’t in contact any more. Sherlock is gratified to see the comments – strangers saying they miss the adventures, mutual friends asking John to talk to him. John ignores all of them, and goes back to posting stupid things like “Today Mary and I looked at getting a puppy, but it turned out she’s actually allergic to dogs and never knew, so we aren’t getting a puppy after all!” (Of course she’s allergic to dogs. Sherlock could have told them that. He could tell by the shape of her nose.)  
Mycroft stops by one day.  
“Is he happy?” Sherlock asks the question quietly, facing the window.  
Mycroft sighs and says, “He claims to be, yes.”  
“But?”  
“He’s been using his cane.”  
“I hate her.”  
“You did have the chance, Sherlock.”  
“He wouldn’t have listened to me.”  
“At least pretend to be all right. Detective Inspector Lestrade has been calling me. He shouldn’t even have my number, Sherlock. It’s supposed to be extremely classified. He went to the trouble of finding it, just so he could tell me he’s worried about you. The police need you; they’re frustrated that you haven’t been solving anything. And your poor landlady is very concerned, not to mention having trouble sleeping with all the violin playing. Just try talking to him. He will let you back into his life.”  
“How can you be so sure?”  
“What you are like right now, Sherlock? This is how he was when you appeared to be dead.”  
“It won’t be the same,” he argues, pushing away the little thrill of hope he gets at Mycroft’s words. “He’ll come to some cases, and he’ll tell me to eat, and maybe we’ll go to dinner. And he will make it perfectly clear to Angelo that we are not a couple, and he’ll show off his ring, and he’ll talk about Mary, and he won’t laugh as much because it will be too awkward and because he has someone else to make him laugh now, and it won’t be enough. I won’t be able to stand it, Mycroft. He’ll be here, but I won’t really have him. You know how I get – I need to either have him completely or not at all. There is no in between.”  
“Neither of you are happy the way things are, Sherlock.”  
“No. But there is no better solution, unless your government has developed some kind of time-travelling device.”  
“For your sake, brother, I wish there was such a thing.” He leaves.  
When Mary Morstan dies, Sherlock and John haven’t spoken in over four years. Sherlock is rather proud of himself for somehow still being alive, considering he’s been filling his body with toxic substances and not eating.  
He doesn’t hear about the death from John or even Mycroft. He reads the obituary in the paper. He scowls at all the sentimental flatter (mostly untrue) and cuts the article out. He attaches it to the wall and shoots at it until it’s unreadable.  
He goes to the funeral (but not as a guest, as he is certainly not invited) and hides behind a tree. John’s limp has never been as severe as it is now, and his hand is shaking violently, and tears stream silently down his cheeks. All Sherlock wants to do is hug him, and it is one of the only things he knows he can never do.  
He thinks his heart might be beyond repair.  
Afterwards, he follows John, watches but doesn’t listen as he talks to the gravestone. Is more than a little surprised when he goes to Sherlock’s own grave next.  
“I do miss you sometimes, you know,” he says after a pause. Sherlock, listening from behind a bush, swallows. So come back, he begs silently. “This is stupid,” the doctor continues, choking on a laugh. “Why am I even talking to your grave? It’s empty. You aren’t even dead. I guess... I guess I just wanted to talk to you but couldn’t actually make myself really talk to you, in person. God, what happened, Sherlock? We were such good friends, weren’t we? I know you didn’t like Mary, but was it worth this? Us not talking for years, me only willing to talk to your empty gravestone, and that only when my wife is dead? This is ridiculous.  
“And it’s all my fault, isn’t it? It really is. I knew you couldn’t stand Mary, and I married her anyway. I tell myself it wasn’t to spite you – I really did love her, you know – but I did know I was hurting you. Why would I do anything to hurt you? And fuck, I still am, aren’t I? And you know what? I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I have no bloody idea why I still refuse to talk to you. Everyone keeps telling me to talk to you. They are begging me to talk to you. Everyone. Even bloody Mycroft. Your brother, Sherlock, begged me. But I won’t. You know I won’t and they know I won’t and I know I won’t, and I really, really should. Because I’ve been rationalizing with myself, and there is no reason for me to keep doing this, and I really don’t know why I’m being so stubborn.   
“I should go see you right now. She was the only problem between us, and she’s gone now. So I should walk out of the cemetery right now and get a cab for Baker Street and make things right. But I think we both know that when I leave here, I’m not going home to Baker Street, I’m going to my house, which I can’t even think of as home. When did I start thinking of you as home, Sherlock? But I can’t. I can’t come back to you. And especially now, when she’s only just died. People would talk, and yeah, I know, Sherlock, people do fucking little else, shut up, will you? I can never get you out of my head. But I can’t come back to you. My therapist can’t explain it. She doesn’t understand why I keep hurting myself.   
“Ok, yes, Sherlock, I fucking miss you like hell. But I can’t come back to you. I can’t. I’m done. I’ve moved out of that chapter of my life. You’re my past, Sherlock, and Mary was the start of my future, and I can’t go back. Things will never be the same between us. Everyone wants me to go back to you so things can be like they were, but it won’t be the same as it was before. This happened. I got married. We didn’t talk for four years. We can’t pretend that didn’t happen and just carry on like normal. It will be only half of what we had before, and I think this is all or nothing, and we can’t have all so we’ll have to go with nothing. And it might kill both of us, but there’s no better solution unless I find a time machine somewhere.” He laughs. “That would be a miracle, huh? One more fucking miracle. You know, if you had been dead for real, I wouldn’t have felt like I was betraying you. Or maybe I would. I don’t know. Anyway, some miracle.” He touches the gravestone. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock watches him go. John’s words make a devastatingly large amount of sense to him, especially since they echo what he said to Mycroft years ago. He notices he is crying, and is disturbed. He feels a panging in his chest. He thinks his heart rebuilt itself, solely for the purpose of breaking again. After all, this goodbye felt a lot more final than the last. He is tired of feeling bad, so he goes home to take the chemicals that will make it go away.  
A few months later, Sherlock overdoses on drugs.  
Thanks to Mycroft’s cameras, Lestrade manages to get to him before it becomes fatal, but he has to stay in the hospital for a few weeks and a rehab facility for months.  
When he gets out, his is still weak. Mycroft picks him up, but brings him not to Baker Street but to John’s house. Sherlock is too tired to protest, but he shoots his brother a questioning look. “I’ve had enough of this. You’re going to talk.”  
When John opens the door to find the two Holmes brothers, he moves to close the door, but Mycroft stops him by sticking his umbrella in the way. “Doctor Watson, I recommend that you look at him before ignoring us.”  
John’s eyes automatically scan over Sherlock – take in the sunken eyes, the skinny frame, the hospital bracelet. Sherlock is simultaneously evaluating John – gained five pounds, new jumper, cane, hand not shaking (presence of the Holmeses must constitute danger). “Shit, Sherlock. Overdose?”  
“You’ve been smoking, so you hardly have a right to judge.”  
John ignores him, looks at Mycroft. “You said you had precautions, that you could tell when it’s a danger night.”  
“It has been a danger night ever night for well over four years,” says Mycroft, voice icy.  
“Four...” John’s brow creases as he does the math, then realization dawns and is quickly replaced with horror. “Oh.”  
“You broke my brother. The least you can do is let us in.”  
John looks a bit annoyed by the accusation that this is his fault, but after a long moment of looking at Sherlock, he steps aside and lets the brothers enter. In the living room, he gestures awkwardly at the chairs then wanders into the kitchen to make tea. He comes back with two cups – takes one for himself, hands one to Sherlock, and doesn’t offer any to Mycroft, who rolls his eyes. Sherlock’s mouth momentarily twists into a smirk.  
After a long, tense moment of silence, Mycroft says, “As to why we are here... The doctors said that Sherlock needs constant attention, someone to take care of him, make sure he doesn’t us, and force him to eat. I cannot expect Mrs. Hudson to undertake this, and I would prefer to not force any more nurses to endure him. So the most obvious solution is to have him stay with someone who is trained in dealing with him and who is also a doctor.”  
“Mycroft!” Sherlock is horrified. His brother never said anything about leaving him with John. What if he makes him leave? He can’t stand that again. But when he looks at John, their eyes meet and the detective sees for a moment his blogger, not the stranger he’s pretending to be.  
“What do you want, Sherlock?” he asks gently.  
“I want to go back in time,” he whispers.  
“To before I met Mary?”  
“To before I met you.” The words come unbidden. There is a little intake of breath from John, and they both freeze as Sherlock realizes what he has said. Did he just imply he wished they were never friends? That isn’t what he meant at all. “If I had never met you, I would never have known what it was like to lose you,” he amends.  
John breathes out and looks down at his tea. “Do you want to stay, Sherlock?”  
“Yes.” Yes, with all my heart.  
“It’s a bad idea.”  
“I know.”  
“It can never be the same as it was.”  
“I know.”  
“I want you to stay.”  
“I know.” This last response is a lie. Sherlock has never been so unsure of anything in his life.  
Mycroft stands up. “I’ll arrange for some of your belongings to be sent here, Sherlock.”  
He exits before they can say anything, leaving them staring at each other. They drink each other in, cataloguing every change, and after a long pause, John says, “This isn’t how this was meant to go.”  
“No.”  
“I imagined it, you know. Us coming back to each other.”  
“Me too.”  
“I never thought about Mycroft having a part in it.”  
“Well, we weren’t going to do it ourselves. Everyone has been pushing for it, and Mycroft is the one with the most power. I suppose it makes sense.”  
“Yeah, I guess so.” Another long pause. Sherlock aches for his violin. “I missed you.”  
Sherlock looks down. “I missed you too.”  
“Obviously,” John says. Mocking him. Good. That’s normal. Progress already.  
He smiles. “Obviously.”  
“I should probably explain –”  
“Don’t bother. The day of her funeral, I followed you. I... listened to what you said to my grave. I... probably shouldn’t have, it’s probably more than a bit not good, but I did, and... you don’t need to explain any more than that. I understand. It made sense. I felt the same way. I had a very similar conversation with my brother years ago, because he wanted to know why I wouldn’t try to talk to you. I wanted to. I wanted you back more than I’ve wanted anything in my life, but I knew it wouldn’t be the same, wouldn’t be enough, and I just couldn’t.”  
“We can try, Sherlock. I wouldn’t have worked when she was here, but it will be different now that she’s gone. I can move back in with you. And it won’t be the same. There will always be these years here that we can’t ignore, but we can pretend. We can move past it the way we moved past your fake death. We can go back to normal. I know I said that stuff in the cemetery, but I was wrong. We need each other. I am dying of boredom without you, and you’ve clearly been having some problems. We can’t just throw away our entire friendship because you and my wife didn’t like each other. Our friends and my blog following and your brother and my sister are right – we have to fix this.”  
“You sound like you’re trying to convince me. You left me, and I overdosed because you were gone, and you think I need convincing to take you back? Think, John.”  
“Right. Ok. Good.” John seems to have used up his eloquence with his little speech. He awkwardly gets up, mumbling something about getting a room ready for Sherlock, and leaves the room with no trace of a limp. Sherlock feels his heart beginning to mend. It still has a long way to go.  
That night, Sherlock sleeps for the first time in two weeks. (The rehab nurses wouldn’t have let him go if they knew he hadn’t been sleeping, but he was good at faking it.) He wakes up from a vicious nightmare, and stumbles down to John’s room. John shakes awake when he feels Sherlock’s weight settling next to him, and says groggily, “Sherlock? What are you doing?”  
“I need to make sure you don’t leave me again.”  
“Oh, Sherlock, I’m not going to.”  
“I think I know that, but I need to know. When I wake up, I need to see that you’re here.”  
“Ok, Sherlock. Stay. I’m not going anywhere until after you wake up.”  
“All right. Thank you, John.”  
They lie there for a while, then John says, “I can’t imagine what people would say if they could see us right now.”  
“Forget what people would say – what would Mary say?” They look at each other for a few seconds, thinking about that, and then they both burst out laughing.  
As Sherlock lies there, in John’s bed, feeling John’s warmth beside him and listening to John’s wonderful, long missed giggle, he feels his heart mending a little more, and he thinks that maybe things will be all right after all.


End file.
